


In Deep

by Winterstar



Series: The Depths [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter confesses to Neal. The consequences may hurt both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Deep

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of a four part series dealing with love and betrayal which I hope to publish over the next month or so. The series will be called The Depths series. First inspired by a prompt over on lj wc hurt comfort from the Freak Accident fest which was Neal falling off a diving board. This does not really fill it, but it was inspired by it. Beta credit for most of it goes to [](http://rabidchild.livejournal.com/profile)[rabidchild](http://rabidchild.livejournal.com/), mistakes are mine! All mine! evil cackling here.

Author’s notes: This is the first of a four part series dealing with love and betrayal which I hope to publish over the next month or so. The series will be called The Depths series. First inspired by a prompt over on lj wc hurt comfort from the Freak Accident fest which was Neal falling off a diving board. This does not really fill it, but it was inspired by it. Beta credit for most of it goes to [](http://rabidchild.livejournal.com/profile)[**rabidchild**](http://rabidchild.livejournal.com/), mistakes are mine! All mine! evil cackling here.

It is unexpected when it happens. Yet, as Peter drags the limp form out of the pool his heart squeezes tight in his chest, makes his ribs ache as he fights for his own respiration. His hair drips rivers of too chlorinated water into his eyes, blurring his already strained vision. Even as he hunches over the inert form near the edge of the pool, Peter glimpses the first swelling on the cheekbone and forehead. He stifles the need to beg, to plead, to ask for a different reality than the one so suddenly thrust upon him.

It has only been weeks.

Only weeks ago Neal returned from Cape Verde and now his face purples and his lips color blue. Peter can only see it with a fatalistic vision. He was never supposed to find Neal. He should have left well enough alone, but he didn't, he couldn't. He could not see a life where Neal wasn’t within his radius, within his sphere of influence.

Now, he cradles Neal in his arms, as the air whispers out of him and the death shroud of shadows envelopes him. He will not let him go, not when he finally brought him back, finally brought him home. He bends to touch his lips to ones that are blue in their aspect, and failing. His lips press against slack ones, caressing as he never should, as he has only wished and dreamed in long low nights of want.

The moments before the accident echo in Peter's head, resonate like a recoiling snake after an attack. It lashes out, strikes, and pulls back to assess its prey, to seek its damage. Peter sees the long sleek body of Neal standing by the side of the pool, his musculature -- always a surprise, since he always looks slim and tailored in the suits and designs he dons.

They'd taken to swimming in the mornings, three days a week before Peter has to book it to make it to the Cave on time. They started as a way to exchange ideas on White Collar cases, but Peter knows he suggested it so that he could ensure a certain amount of closeness and watchfulness over Neal. The thought of Neal running isn’t part of the equation. It isn't that he doesn't trust Diana and Jones to secure Neal's safety, but it is more for his peace of mind. He tells himself these truths and lies. Though he doesn't know which is the lie and which is the truth.

So three days out of the week, Peter and Neal meet up at a local swim club and work out for an hour. Most of the time is spent in the pool, but a considerable amount is expended discussing Neal's latest case, or his past and his yearning to know more about who he is. Peter worries about all of these issues, but keeps his head (most times) and tries to lend a supportive word once in a while.

The words he said right before Neal plunged into the pool were not supportive. They surprised and threw him off kilter, broke down his concentration and suddenly Neal fell in and went too deep, plunged too far and smacked his face and head on the bottom of the pool. The angle of his fall terrified Peter; for one moment he'd thought Neal snapped his neck. Without hesitation, he followed Neal and yanked him from the pool.

He keeps saying he isn't dead. He wouldn't die right after Peter said the words that meant so much and cut into the fabric of their worlds so perfectly. Peter hadn't planned it, it just came out.

"I need to know, Peter, I just need to know because," Neal had said as he perched on the ledge of the diving board.

"Because?"

Neal shrugged and turned away from Peter. It was a rare case when Neal Caffrey couldn't hide his fears, his frailties. His words were soft. "Because, I want to know if I was ever important to him, if he ever loved me."

The look of loss dug into Peter's gut like a hot searing knife slicing through him. The thought of this man, so abandoned, stabbed Peter with a pain deep and abiding inside him. The words he never meant to say came out of his mouth before Peter had thought of them.

"But I love you," Peter said.

"Peter," Neal had replied, shaking his head a bit. His reaction was melancholy and tender as if to say he appreciates the fatherly/brotherly love Peter offers but it can never be enough, it can never fill up the empty spaces.

He knew he was in too deep, too far into the riptide of life. "Not like that, not like a father." He stopped, he should have stopped. He should have left it and not pursued it but the earnest look on Neal's face laid him open and bared his soul from the shades of fear. "I love you, Neal. I _love_ you."

Neal fell.

His feet went out from underneath him, as if his legs weakened and gave up on him. He slipped into the waters then and splintered their worlds.

Now, Peter rolls Neal over, clears out his airways of water as best he can. His lips touch the mouth he has so longed to taste, to kiss. Instead, his actions, his motions are to save and breathe life into the love fading from his sights, dissipating like an ever dying day at the cusp of night. He shares his breath, offers his life to expand and fill the man before him. Centering his focus solely on Neal, Peter doesn't notice the movements around him, the calls from the lifeguard on duty, the other swimmers circling them.

He looks up when Neal fails to responds and the faces about him are bleached out of any color. He cannot see the red of their lips, the hue of their hair. The colors around him have been banished from the people, there is nothing left. Someone is crouching next to him, calling him, telling him to move off. Somehow he listens and a paramedic takes his place. The rescue breathing is replaced and in seconds Neal is intubated. His chest rises and falls with the rhythm pumped by hand into his lungs. His body arches up; he seizes and blanches when he finds his way toward consciousness again. His eyes open.

Blue.

He'd once asked Maya if she'd seen Neal, describing him with a photo and 'maybe blue eyes'. He wonders still if his question had seemed too fake, too false in its aspect. One of the very first things Peter ever noticed about Neal, other than his dazzling smile, had been the color of sky in his eyes. They were nothing if not remarkable.

Color flushes back in the world when he glimpses those blue eyes again. He thinks maybe for once he can understand the controlled abandon Jackson Pollock used to create his masterpieces of the abstract. For one single moment in time, he comprehends the perfection of a color. Blue.

Neal struggles against the paramedics working on him. His moans sear holes in Peter's chest. He reaches out and Peter is there, grasping hold of his hand, knowing possibly, this may be the last moment he can even hold Neal close to him. Once the bureau and Hughes discover what Peter did, what he confessed he'll never find his way back to White Collar again.

The moments of his life are ripped away when they load Neal onto the gurney, and then rush him toward the ambulance. Peter is barely coherent enough to ask to ride along, but as he asks, Neal codes. His eyes roll back in his head and the heart monitor strapped to his chest starts to scream.

“He’s aspirating into the tube,” the paramedic yells. Peter stumbles as the same paramedic, a short curly headed Hispanic woman, places a hand on Peter's chest as if to ward him off or offer him comfort, and then braces herself to climb into the ambulance after Neal. Just as her companion slams the doors closed, Peter sees the intubation lines pulled out of Neal’s throat and his neck muscles and tendons taut as he fights for air. They are off before Peter can take a second breath, before he can fathom all the implications of a dying Neal and the reality he seems to have drawn for himself. It is one where he admits his love, but also one where Neal does not exist.

He goes to the corner of the parking lot and vomits.

It isn't long before someone, the lifeguard on duty, ushers him to his car, speaks in low soothing tones, and hands over Peter's clothes and gym bag. He can't figure out how they retrieved it, how they even knew his name to find his locker. He doesn't care if his detective skills have abandoned him, all he wants is to get to the hospital. The swim club's director is talking, telling him to which hospital the ambulance will deliver Neal. Peter nods, shoves the key into the ignition, and starts away. It occurs to him he's still soaking wet. It occurs to him he'll be late for Patterson and the Cave. It occurs to him that he's just betrayed his wife.

It is only the last which causes him to need to swallow again, to grapple with the need to bend over and puke. To lose her and Neal would be the end of him.

He remembers nothing of the trip to the hospital, where he parked or how he even entered the hospital. He walks outside of himself, like a ghost as his body does the right things, as he asks the right questions to find out where Neal has been taken. He finds out that Neal is in x-ray. He nods and realizes this means Neal is alive. He still breaths.

For a second, Peter lifts his fingers to his mouth and touches his lips to remember the soft, yielding press of Neal’s lips on his own. He closes his eyes and wishes for the tears to not come, to not well up in his eyes. He needs everything to be the way it was, to ignore his outburst. Before he knows it a nurse shows him to the triage bay where Neal is being wheeled.

Peter turns his focus away and gathers himself. The side of Neal’s face bulges and swells. Blues and purple radiate the pain his friend, his love feels. There is a considerable bump on Neal’s temple and he has a kidney shaped bowl sitting on his chest. His face – what isn’t colored with bruises – pales to a shade of gray white.

Once again the automaton takes over and Peter’s asking questions, finding out Neal’s status. He flashes a badge, offers the information he carries in his wallet to show that he’s legally responsible for Neal, and finally the doctor relents.

The emergency room physician looks tired and worn, like he’s seen too many years of practice and not enough years of success. He balances his glasses on his bald head and his puffy eyes are rimmed with sagging wrinkles. His eyes are distant and cold. Peter cringes, he doesn’t want Neal treated by this man, but he gulps back his qualms and listens as the doctor rambles on about Neal’s state.

“Isn’t much we can do. He’s lucky. He didn’t break or fracture his cheekbone. All of the swelling is soft tissue damage. Cold ice packs for twenty four hours or so, then some heat for another twenty four will do it. I think.” The doctor frowns. “I can probably order up some pain killers, if you think you want to give him some.”

The way the doctor says it curdles Peter’s stomach as if Peter wouldn’t allow a convict pain medication. What kind of doctor is he?

“Yes, I want him to have pain meds,” Peter says with a touch of malice in his voice.

“He’s got a concussion as well, so that should be taken into consideration,” the doctor says as he looks back at Neal. “Should we call in security?”

“What? No!” Peter wants to claw the man’s eyes out. He glimpses Neal over the slumped shoulders of the doctor and notes that he’s heard every word. There’s a slight cast over Neal’s features, an acceptance of who he is, what he is. It pains Peter even more than the injuries Neal sustain.

 _I’m a criminal._ Neal had once stated and there had been nothing, no retort, no words of comfort Peter offered. He had always wanted to be like his father, and he disappointedly realized he was. The truth hurts, but prejudice isn’t acceptable.

He turns back to the doctor and says, “Does he have to stay here?”

“He should for twenty four hours,” the doctor replies. “But, you know, security and all. What do you think?

Peter glances down at the doctor’s identification card hanging by a clip from his laboratory jacket. He can’t read the doctor’s name because the tag is flipped over. He reaches out and turns it.

He offers the doctor a saccharine sweetened smile and pats his photo identification card. “Doctor Phillips, I would like to think that someone with a medical degree and years of experience would inform me what the best course of action would be for my partner at the FBI.” He emphasizes his affiliation.

Phillips grumbles and stutters over his words, then raises his hands in surrender. “It would be best if he stays for observation for twenty four hours. While the CT scan did not show any brain hemorrhage, the injury is serious enough; I think it would be best.”

“Thank you, doctor.” He dismisses the doctor once he’s assured the bastard prescribes Neal both pain medication and anti-emetics to relieve his nausea. The doctor shuffles off and leaves Peter in the bay with Neal. It will be a few minutes until they can transfer Neal into a room.  
The sounds of the emergency room so prominent and overwhelming dissipate to a distance, to a low hiss. Life about them dwindles and Peter’s focus narrows and his heart robs him of breath. There is about three feet of space between the bed and where Peter stands. Neal rests his head back on the cushion of the pillows. His face still grimaced in pain.

Peter steps across the divide and it feels like he walks over a chasm, a cool sweep of wind chills him inside and out.

He knows he has to say something, anything. “Neal.”

Neal opens his eyes. On the injured side of his face, his eye is blood shot and tearing. He wonders if the tears are from the pain, bruising or both. The guilt of what he’s done twists into him and he wants nothing but to reach out, to touch this man in front of him. He can do little, he can do nothing.

Neal looks away for only a moment, and then looks up at Peter. His open expression startles Peter, steals him of the strength to even meet his gaze. He drops away and tries to steady his panting, his breathing, his racing pulse. Because what he sees there, what he knows there – Neal has completed the circle, Neal tells him, confesses to him without words. Yet, at the same time, he feels the same loss, the same separation and desperation.

He mouths Peter’s name but gives it no sound.

Peter reaches out, his fingers touching Neal’s upturned palm, his fingers. “Neal.”

Neal stares down at their hooked fingers, touching but not holding one another. His voice is low, garbled and hurt. “I can’t do this to you, to Elizabeth.”

“No, no I can’t either,” Peter says, the pain emanates in waves coursing over him. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

Neal shakes his head. “Don’t, Peter, don’t say you’re sorry you said it. I need-.”

He stops and Peter steps closer, his shadow covering Neal like a shield against the rest of the world, against the chaos that always exists. He wants to stay as a steady state for Neal, as an equilibrium he now understands Neal has never had.

“I’m not sorry I love you,” Peter whispers. “But I shouldn’t have burdened you with it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Neal does what Peter cannot do, what fear paralyzes him and stops him from doing. He lifts his free hand and runs to fingers down the outline of Peter’s face, from temple to cheekbone, to jawline.

“I’m sorry,” Neal whispers, his voice rough.

Peter bows his head, but captures Neal’s hand as he parts from caressing his face. He holds the hand before him, palm up and dips his head. With the lightest brush, he kisses Neal’s palm as if he is blessing it to keep him safe from the sins of his own transgression.

“I love her, heart and soul.”

Neal nods as tears run down the edge of his cheeks. He says _I know._ No sound comes out.

“I always will.” He is telling Neal not to wait for him, this was a mistake. It always will be a mistake.

Neal tries to smile, but the bulging bruise prevents him, makes him cringe against the muscle action. “I want you to; I need you to always love her.”

Peter blinks his eyes, tries to deny the hurt, the pain deep in his own gut and in his heart. “I will.”

“Good,” Neal whispers. “Because I couldn’t love you if you didn’t.”

Peter has to step away; he needs to separate from Neal. He looks down at the palm still grasped in his hand. He wants nothing more than to kiss it, to caress it, to love it. His gaze drifts upward and he meets Neal’s eyes and sees the same there. Yet, he also sees a resolution to follow Peter’s love, to respect Peter’s love, to not hurt Peter’s love.

With one last murmur, Peter says, “I love you.”

He doesn’t wait for Neal to reply, he doesn’t kiss him or give a lasting goodbye. He turns on his heel and walks away. He finds his way to his car and sits and lets the emotions take over like a storm battering him.

Nothing comes.

No tears.

No twisting in his gut.

Only the dull ache of loss grips him and he sits and contemplates the cruelty of his actions. He hurt both of the people he loves the most in this world.

Elizabeth.

Neal.

He has abandoned one of them, alone and hurt. He closes his eyes and lets the pain become a part of him, his definition because he can never be free of it.

The ache heightens to a throb until he finally feels the tears break loose. He sits in silence, in the dark of the parking garage and cries.

No one hears him.

He is loved, he loves, but there is no one there to help him.

He is alone.

THE END. 

And yes, I just posted this while on vacation. I am sitting in the dark in the hotel room posting it! Whee!!  



End file.
